The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. Others who have done, have found you false. Her shoulders began to ache. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. This way, Sir Rowland. I wonder what it was. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. But he has since acquitted you of any share in it.
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